


Kiss the Girl (And Other Mixed Metaphors)

by sparkycap



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beauty and the Beast AU, Crack, Fairy Tale Elements, Humor, M/M, Unspecified Setting, unspecified time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8431990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkycap/pseuds/sparkycap
Summary: Carwood spends too much of his life pulling Luz out of various sorts of sticky situations. If this time it gets him locked in a castle with a fearsome beast and some talking objects, well, at least the food is decent.





	

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re going to kill yourself.”

“Okay, but do you think I’ll win first place?” Luz asks.

Carwood looks back and forth between Luz, his strange contraption, and the flyer for some kind of inventing competition two counties over. He sighs. “You’ve got a shot. If it doesn’t malfunction and kill everyone in a six foot radius.”

“Lip, I swear, I’ve worked out all the kinks,” Luz tells him earnestly. “Perco’s been letting me test it on Dike’s place when he’s out.”

“Good, because you’re not turning it on in here,” Carwood says, absentminded. Then Luz’s words fully register, and he does a double take. “That’s—Dike’s place? Is Perco trying to get fired or something? That’s pretty goddamn irresponsible, even for you.”

“Ah, come on, Lip. What are you worried about? We bust up a few of Dike’s things, it fucking serves him right,” Luz says.

Carwood shakes his head. “I know he seems—“

“Useless? Clueless? So goddamn idiotic he can’t be anything but harmless?” Luz interrupts to suggest.

“Maybe by himself,” Carwood says worriedly. “But you know he’s got some powerful backing, he could make things difficult for both of you around here.”

“Yeah, like he’s doing for you?” Luz snaps, first hint of real anger coloring his voice. He taps a cigarette into the palm of his hand, sticking it into the corner of his mouth.

Carwood grimaces. “Don’t smoke that in here, Christ, I thought you were house-broken when I agreed to take you in.”

“Aw, Lip—“

“Come on, walk with me,” Carwood says. It’s the best way to deal with Luz, shut him up before he gets going. “I’ve got to pick up a few things in town, you can poison yourself on the way there.”

Luz grumbles all the way out the door, but he follows. He chatters idly through the walk, the way he does most things, and Carwood doesn’t mind so much. There’s no pressure to talk when he doesn’t want to, and Luz obediently shuts up when he does. People say a lot of things about George Luz—he’s crazy, he’s going to get someone killed one day, he’s going to get himself killed and haunt that poor Carwood Lipton until the day he dies too—but no one ever says he’s not good company.

And then, just when they’ve entered the town proper, Luz’s tone changes abruptly. “Ah, shit.”

“What is it?” Carwood asks, even though he already knows. He glances around, resigned, and sure enough there’s Norman Dike heading towards them from across the square, Perconte at his heels wearing an apologetic expression.

“Lipton,” Dike says, in that awkward stilted way he has, eyes unfocused somewhere to Carwood’s left. “Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

“I have not reconsidered, sir, no,” Carwood says. “Just as I hadn’t the last six times.”

He nearly curses himself for that last part, because the last thing he needs is to antagonize Dike further. He already can’t get a job because of Dike’s influence, next thing he knows Luz will be barred from his part time work at the grocer, and they’ll have no way of putting food on the table—the table in the tiny house that, fortunately, Carwood owns outright.

Of course, Dike doesn’t even seem to notice. “No need to call me that. Perconte, show him the ring again.”

Perconte is mouthing curse words behind Dike’s back as he fumbles the small box out of pocket. He pops the lid with a pained grimace. Carwood smiles as reassuringly as he can as Perco grits out, “It’s very expensive. You can be assured of your comfort as Mr. Dike’s husband.”

“I’m comfortable where I am, sir,” Carwood says. “And with calling you sir. It’s only proper.”

He doesn’t add that he mostly doesn’t want to hear Dike start calling him Lip, or, god forbid, _Carwood_.

“Well, whatever makes you comfortable, Lipton,” Dike says vaguely. Carwood shares an incredulous look with Luz at the irony. It’s possible he’s never been so uncomfortable in his life. Then Dike says, “I hope you’ll reconsider your answer,” and wanders away.

“I am so sorry,” Perconte mutters as he passes, hoisting Dike’s dry cleaning bag miserably. Carwood pats him on the shoulder.

They stand for a long moment, and finally Lip says, “Why me, George? Seriously. Why?”

“Well, someone like me’d be too goddamn high maintenance, Lip,” Luz says, tone light even as he stares after Dike distastefully. “Whichever rich uncle putting Dike up to this is smart, he knows only someone as patient as you could put up with Dike’s glaring incompetence.”

“I’m not that patient,” Carwood says darkly.

“Eh. You haven’t punched him yet.”

…

The next day, Luz loads his machine, the functions of which Carwood has been too wary to ask for specific details on, into the bed of his truck. He pulls Carwood into a hug and tells him that when he gets back they’re going to use the prize money to put a proper hit out on Dike, even though Liebgott from the bakery would do it for free if Carwood would just stop telling him not to. He once again waves off the idea of Carwood accompanying him, claiming he’s going to meet up with some friends over there and Lip would just be bored, and Carwood tries to remind himself that Luz is in fact a grown man as he watches him pull away.

He’ll probably be fine. Luz has a tendency to get himself into certain kinds of situations, but he’s also pretty good at talking himself out of them, when Carwood isn’t there to pull him out forcibly by the scruff of his neck.

Of course, Luz’s truck breaks down in the middle of the woods about two hours into his journey, halfway down a dirt country road that he could’ve sworn was on his map but, upon closer inspection once he was stuck, turned out to be a smudge of chocolate.

The engine is so shot even Luz can’t do anything without replacement parts, and he doesn’t have any service to call Lip.

“Jesus fuck,” Luz says. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

He licks the chocolate off his thumb and lights up a cigarette. He smokes and curses his way through three more before he gets himself off his ass and starts wandering through the woods, map in hand. It looks like there’s some kind of structure a ways in—closer than the nearest town in either direction, at any rate—and he figures at the least they’ll have a phone.

It’s night by the time he gets to the gates of a huge motherfucking castle.

It’s also fucking freezing, which is why Luz feels no qualms about slipping over the wall and marching straight up to the doors. Or about pushing them open when no one answers his loud, insistent knocking, or stepping inside when they happen to be unlocked.

“Hello?” he calls.

“What the fuck,” someone says.

“Hey, you’re the one who left the fuckin’ door unlocked,” Luz says, frowning, looking around for the owner of the voice.

“Down here,” the voice says.

Luz looks down. There’s a candlestick on the long fancy carpet. Just a lone candlestick, sitting there with candles for hands and fire bright eyes and an elfish smile. All things candlesticks should not have, not to mention the voice. Luz stares. “What the fuck— _me_ , what the fuck? You’re a fucking _talking candle_.”

“We so rarely get visitors,” the candlestick says dryly. “And never ones so astute as you.”

“Well as much as I hate to impose,” Luz says. “It’s freezing, my truck broke down, and I need at the very least a goddamn phone.”

“Yeah, we don’t have one of those,” the candlestick says. “But I could probably scrounge up a cup of coffee. What’s your name?”

“George Luz. Do candlesticks have names?”

“Call me Harry. Come on, follow me.”

Harry the Candlestick leads him down the hallway while Luz watches and tries to figure out how he’s even moving. In the kitchen, a kettle is fighting with a teacup. Luz blinks.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “Sure.”

“That’s Joe. The little one is Bill,” Harry says, as if there’s nothing unusual happening.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Bill says. “Who the fuck is this?”

“This is Luz, a weary traveler who has happened upon us in his hour of need. I’ve graciously offered him some hospitality,” Harry tells them.

“That’s a mistake,” Bill says.

“Buddy, you’re gonna want to get out while you can,” Joe says.

Luz frowns. “Yeah, I’d rather _not_ walk another five hours through the pitch black woods, so. If I could just grab some food.”

“As long as you know it’s your funeral.”

“That has been made clear to me, yes.”

“Then be our guest.”

Despite the words of warning, they all chat with him quite amiably as he sits on the counter and polishes off a sandwich or two. Bill has a damn strange accent, and Joe has a far sexier voice than any teapot has the right to have. Luz does his best to ignore the discomfort of that thought.

Just as he’s done eating, a new voice pipes up from the doorway. “What is going on in here?”

Luz glances in that direction, then tracks his gaze downward when it appears to be empty. A miniature grandfather clock sidles over the threshold.

“I’d ask whose stupid idea this was, but given present company I’m sure I can guess,” the clock says.

“This is Dick,” Harry tells Luz, ignoring the clock. “Our resident stick in the mud.”

“No, the stick in the mud is in the room upstairs. And when he crushes your fragile waxy body with one hand after seeing this, I’m not going to try to stop him,” Dick says.

“Ron loves me,” Harry disagrees. “Or at least he loves Kitty too much to upset her by killing me.”

“Ah,” Luz cuts in. “This Ron. I assume he doesn’t love me. Should I be worried?”

“Most definitely,” Bill assures him.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Joe tells him.

“You need to leave,” Dick says.

And then there’s a roar, no other word for it, from upstairs. Everyone in the room freezes. “Too late,” Harry says.

The _thing_ that appears in the doorway is almost like a human, except for the way it’s taller, broader, and covered in deep dark fur. Then of course there’s the snout, the wolf ears, and the sharp fangs flashed in a cold snarl.

“What big teeth you have,” Luz says weakly.

“Mixing your fairytales, buddy,” Harry tells him in a whisper.

“Welsh, what the fuck did you do,” the beast says.

“I brought you a gift,” Harry says, affronted. “Out of the kindness of my heart.”

“The gift is leaving,” the beast says.

“Actually,” someone says from the doorway, and for a second Luz almost weeps with relief because he’s _human_. Then the man continues, and the feeling dissipates rapidly. “That might not be the best idea. If he goes around telling people, well, who knows who might show up.”

“Lew,” the clock says exasperatedly. “We don’t just take prisoners.”

“We do now,” the beast says. To Luz, he asks, “Would you like to walk to your cell or shall I drag you?”

Luz fumbles his way off the counter. “I’m good at walking.”

…

A week after Luz is supposed to be home but isn’t, Carwood sets off after him.

He bikes there, because Luz went off to be an idiot with their only car and Carwood is, as Liebgott tells him after apologetically denying his request to borrow the car Lieb needs to pick up shipments the next morning, probably too good of a person.

The bike gets dropped at the gate of the castle.

Carwood would stare openmouthed for a lot longer than he actually does if not for the fact that he knows, unquestionably, that this is where Luz went. No way does Luz have the self-restraint to be anywhere near a place like this and not nose around inside.

Which is exactly what Carwood does when he finds the door unlocked and most of the place seemingly empty.

He peeks around, listening hard, used to hearing Luz before he sees him. At one point he swears he hears a whispered voice say, “Shit, look at this one. Nix was right.”

He doesn’t think too much on it once he finds the tower that contains about three cells and Luz, huddled in the corner of one of them. He swears. “Christ, boy. No, I don’t need you to come with me, Lip. I’ll be fine, Lip. I’ll be back by next week, Lip!”

“That sounds vaguely familiar,” Luz says. “Have I finally died? Am I in heaven?”

“If you end up in heaven after all the shit you put me through, then I’ll know the system’s rigged,” Carwood says. “Come on, let’s get you outta here.”

“You got a key?” Luz asks pointedly.

“What, you mean you’re not skinny enough to slip right through the bars? I promise I’ll carry you the rest of the way,” Carwood says, even as he’s glancing around the room as if a key might just appear.

“Lip,” Luz says. He sounds different. Too serious. “I think you should just go.”

Carwood stops. “What are you talking about?”

“You. Leaving.” Luz keeps shooting nervous glances over Carwood’s shoulder. There’s nothing there when Carwood looks back. “I’m not exactly in here for fun, you know, and if someone catches you—“

“Then I’m sure they’ll lock me up right along with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m leaving without you,” Carwood says. “Hell, maybe it’ll be nice. You think this room is the size of our house, or bigger?

“Bigger,” Luz answers absently. Then he tries again, “I mean it, though—“

“They feed you?” Carwood interrupts. “Decent food?”

Luz stares at him like he’s gone crazy. “Yeah, it’s pretty damn good,” he says slowly.

“Well, there you go, then,” Carwood says. “More space, better food, no Dike. It’s a little chilly, but we could do worse.”

“Look, I know you’re an eternal optimist and all, but this is a little much even for you,” Luz tells him.

Carwood sighs. “Yeah, I was just trying to keep you distracted while I looked for a way out.”

“Got nothing, right?” Luz confirms.

“Not a thing.”

“How about we revisit the option of you leaving?”

“There’s always the option of you shutting up,” Carwood suggests instead, doing one more slow circle to look around the room.

“Lip, you don’t understand,” Luz says, desperate now. “There’s some crazy shit going on in this place, okay? Talking candles and really sexy teapots and a fucking b—“

“Are you drugged?” Carwood interrupts.

“You should let him finish,” someone says behind him.

Carwood freezes. The voice is dark and raspy with a distinctly non-human element. He doesn’t turn around, just cocks his head at Luz.

“No? Well, I’ll do it, then,” the voice says. “A fucking beast, I believe he was saying.”

“Forgive my candor, Your Beastliness,” Luz says.

Carwood turns around to come face to face with the beast.

“Holy shit,” they both say.

The beast shrinks a little, like he’s used to that reaction, but Carwood rears back, self-conscious. “What?”

“Nothing,” the beast says. “You’re just—you look—“

“Because I’ve got the shocking appearance here, between the two of us?” Carwood asks, folding his arms across his chest.

“Never mind, okay?” the beast says, rolling its eyes. “Look, your friend isn’t going anywhere.”

“Why not?” Carwood asks.

“Because I don’t want angry villagers coming to my door with a pitchfork, and he’s got a big mouth.”

“I won’t tell anyone!” Luz exclaims.

“He won’t tell anyone,” Carwood says. “No one would believe him if he did. It’s implausible, for one. And he’s got a bit of a reputation.”

“Why am I not surprised,” the beast mutters. Then he shrugs, the movement strange on his strangely shaped shoulders, and says, “Not good enough.”

Carwood straightens as a thought strikes him. “What if I stay?”

The beast cocks his head, confused. “You want to stay with him?”

“Instead of him,” Carwood clarifies.

“Lip, no,” Luz says.

Carwood ignores him. “I’ll be your insurance. Let Luz go home, and he won’t tell anyone so you don’t—well, kill me. Or whatever threat seems best to you.”

The beast stares at him for a long moment. It’s unnerving. The beast has pretty eyes. Finally he says, clipped, “Fine.”

And the door to Luz’s cell pops open as if it was listening.

Luz stumbles out. “Lip, _no_.”

“It’ll be fine,” Carwood tells him.

“I’m sure you can find the door,” the beast says, bored.

“I won’t—“

“Luz,” Carwood interrupts, putting a bit of steel into his voice. “You don’t have a choice. Walk out or he drags you out. Or I do.”

The beast makes as if to lunge forward. Luz yelps and scurries off. “I’m not leaving you here forever,” he calls over his shoulder.

“You better,” Carwood says to his retreating back. Then he turns to the beast. “So do I get to pick a cell?”

“No. No, just—come on, I’ve got a room—“ The beast turns abruptly and starts leading the way out of the tower, seeming stiffer now that Luz is gone.

“A room?” Carwood repeats, obediently dropping his arms to his sides and following.

The beast throws a glance over its shoulder. “Yes, a room. Would you rather stay in the tower?”

“No, but then why did you make Luz?” Carwood asks.

“Because he never shut up,” the beast says. “He’s your friend, you must know how annoying he is—I had to put him somewhere I couldn’t hear him.”

“That’s fair,” Carwood says.

“You’ll be fine here,” the beast says suddenly. “No one will bother you, and you’ll eat three meals a day. You can go anywhere you want except the west wing. That’s mine.”

“Is there anyone else here?” Carwood asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” the beast says.

“That’s not cryptic at all,” Carwood says.

“You’ll see.”

“Oh, that’s better.”

The beast seems like he might almost be smiling.

…

“Were you nice to him?”

“I gave him a room.”

“But were you _nice_ to him?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Harry throws up his hands. “I’m done. Someone else try.”

Dick ticks. Then he tocks. Then he says, “I think what Harry’s trying to say is he could be the one to break the spell.”

“Anyone could be the one to break the spell,” Ron says, irritated. “That doesn’t mean they will.”

“That’s why you had to be nice to him!” Harry exclaims, hopping back over. His self-imposed silence didn’t last long. It never does.

“I made him my prisoner. I don’t think my attitude was really on his radar,” Ron says.

Nix sighs. “You like him, right?”

“He’s fine,” Ron says noncommittally.

“Which means you like him. So why not try?” Nix asks.

“You missed the part where I’m a terrifying beast, right?”

Nix waves that off. “You always were, you just used to look prettier.”

“And the part where he’s my prisoner?”

“Even better. He can’t run away.”

…

He could, and he would, but not yet.

…

“Are you hungry?” the wardrobe asks.

Carwood falls off the bed.

“Did you just talk?” he asks from the floor.

The wardrobe bends over to check if he’s all right. “Yeah. You hungry?”

Carwood stares. “So when Luz said talking candlesticks…”

“Fuckin’ Harry,” the wardrobe mutters. “Everyone’s always so fascinated by his pretty flames and his waxy mouth and his ease of movement. Do you know how hard it is for me to fit through that doorway? No one ever _sees_ me! You don’t hear people spreading tales about the haunted castle with the talking wardrobes, no, it’s always the goddamn candlesticks.”

“Wardrobes are very underrated,” Carwood agrees automatically, still trying to wrap his head around this.

The wardrobe huffs, settling back down. “I like you. What’s your name?”

“Carwood. And you?” He realizes belatedly talking wardrobes might not have names.

“Babe,” the wardrobe says. “Carwood, huh?” Babe’s remarkably expressive wooden face somehow scrunches up. “People call you that?”

“Some people call me Lip,” he offers.

“That’ll do,” the wardrobe says. “Anyway, last call. Are you hungry? There’ll be dinner downstairs.”

Carwood frowns. “Just for me? Or do you… do you all… eat?”

“We don’t. But Ron does,” Babe says.

“Right.”

“He’s not all that bad, really,” Babe says. “Some anger issues, of course, a violent temper, goddamn. But he’s always careful to only take his claws out on the inanimate objects. He visits, sometimes, since I don’t get out of the room that often.”

“How nice,” Carwood says, unsure.

“Well, you’ll see. Get down there.”

Carwood makes his cautious way out of the room and down the stairs, trailing his hand along the fine wooden railing. Ron is sitting at the table, pushing soup around in his bowl.

“Something wrong with that?” Carwood asks.

Ron looks up. “What?”

“The soup. You’re not eating it.”

“I’m watching my figure,” Ron deadpans. Then he makes a face at himself and sits up straighter, like he’s attempting to be polite. “It’s good.”

Carwood sits down in front of his own bowl. He ladles some into his spoon, and then puts it down again. “I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Am I going to be your prisoner forever?” Carwood asks.

“Forever or until your friend dies, whichever comes first,” Ron says.

“Without me around, that might be sooner than you’d think,” Carwood mutters.

“All the better for you, then,” Ron says.

The soup, at least, _is_ good.

…

This is when he runs away.

…

It’s snowing when Carwood leaves the castle. He’d simply waited until there was no more movement from the west wing, and then walked right out the front door. It’s cold, but it won’t get warmer for months, and Carwood isn’t willing to wait that long.

The forest is dead silent. He stops every once in awhile to listen for footsteps, someone following him, but he never hears any.

It feels like there’s someone there anyway.

Later, he attributes this to the wolves.

He’s made it about three clearings when he realizes he’s surrounded in the fourth. Pure white wolves that blend into the snow, glowing red eyes that really cannot be natural—Carwood blinks. No, still red.

“Maybe we can talk about this,” he tries.

The biggest wolf snarls.

“Or not,” he agrees.

Then the wolf leaps, and he’s taken to the ground. The snow seeps into his clothes, and the cold seeps into his bones, and the wolf draws blood. Carwood hisses, clutching at his thigh. When he tries to roll the wolf off of him, he gets a swipe to his face for his trouble.

He lays there, blood streaming into his mouth, the wolf’s hot breath on his face, unnaturally red eyes staring at him unnaturally close, and does his best to accept that this is how he’s going to die.

It’s not all bad.

He doesn’t feel cold anymore.

Especially when he hears a familiar growl, and the wolf gets lifted off of him and thrown like a ragdoll. The beast roars, and the rest of the wolves scatter, and Carwood feels pretty damn warm right about then.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Freedom,” Carwood slurs tiredly, staring up at the sky. Then Ron ducks into view, and Carwood smiles. He’s furry. Looks warm.

“In the middle of the night? In the middle of a _blizzard_? You don’t know these woods, you weren’t even going the right way.”

Carwood shrugs. At least now he won’t mind going back so much. He thinks he’s actually going to love it there, after this.

Someone lifts him off the ground, and Carwood mumbles, “Soft,” into scruffy dark fur.

Love will have something to do with it, anyway.

…

When Carwood wakes up, he’s curled in an armchair by the fire, wrapped in about four blankets. There’s a crowd of objects on the floor around him, all staring at him. The candlestick is by his feet, carefully holding tiny flames underneath them, waxy tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration, presumably in an attempt to warm him without setting him on fire.

“Hello,” Carwood says, sleepy and confused.

“He’s awake,” the candlestick hisses, jerking back. He hides his candle-hands behind him and attempts an innocent smile.

“No fuckin’ shit,” the teacup snipes.

“So polite,” the wardrobe observes from the doorway.

“Hey,” Carwood says. “You made it out.”

“You, too,” Babe says. “We weren’t sure.”

Then another voice, a real human voice, says, “The cold helped with blood loss, at least. You didn’t lose too much.”

Carwood cranes his head to look, and there’s a dark-haired human walking into the room, wiping his hands on a red streaked rag. “You’re—“

“Human, yeah. And you’re going to have a scar.” The clock makes a disapproving tick-tock, and the human adds, “Call me Nix. I patched you up the best I could. Ron would have done it, but, you know. Claws.”

“Paws,” Carwood agrees.

Nix tilts him an amused smile. “You’re still a little out of it, aren’t you?”

“Hmm. Where’s Ron?” Carwood asks, not sure why he wants to know. He’s not quite warm yet, and he remembers something about Ron and warmth. Something soft and warm.

“Hunting,” Nix says.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Babe says hastily. “Let me make introductions.”

The objects, it turns out, _all_ have names.

Carwood rubs his hands over his face, finally waking up a bit more, the warmth from the fire seeping in and making him less groggy. Then his hand catches on a bandage, and he frowns. “Oh.”

“That’s what happens when you pick fights with wolves,” Ron says from behind him, loping into the room.

Nix, who has just settled into a chair, muttering quietly with Dick the mini grandfather clock, groans at the sight of him. “Maybe you should take your own advice there, Sparky.”

Carwood twists to look. Ron is damp with snow, blood matting the fur at his paws and muzzle. For the most part, the blood doesn’t seem to be his own, but there’s a few long gashes across his back. Hunting, Nix had said.

The wolves must be dead.

“Yes, but I won,” Ron says.

“I just got this idiot’s blood washed off,” Nix says, moving to get to his feet.

“Let me,” Carwood says. He waves Nix down, rolling off the cushy armchair. It’s the least he can do, even if he has to take one of the blankets with him. He holds it wrapped around his shoulders as he fetches some cloths and a bowl of warm water. When he returns, Ron is glaring at him from the middle of the room.

“You should be resting,” he says.

“Sit,” Carwood says.

Ron sits.

He shifts uncomfortably as Carwood starts dabbing at the cuts. “Why are you doing this?”

“You saved me,” Carwood points out. “And then murdered some wolves on my behalf. It’s the least I can do.”

“Least you could’ve done was not leave,” Ron says.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” Carwood says.

“You’re my responsibility,” Ron snaps. “And if I hadn’t you’d be dead.”

“Well, if you hadn’t kept me here in first place—“

“You offered—“

“—so you didn’t eat my friend!”

“I don’t _eat_ humans, I _am_ human.”

Carwood stops. He becomes abruptly aware that the room is empty besides the two of them, and he’s still holding a bloodstained rag to Ron’s fur.

Ron bats him away, letting out a small growl. “I was, anyway. We all were.”

“You were—well, I guess that makes sense,” Carwood says thoughtfully. As much sense as talking clocks and candlesticks simply springing into existence. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know. Old lady shows up at your door, you let her in for some soup, she tells you she’s your fairy godmother. Next thing you know you’re some kind of beast, and she’s apologizing for the hassle but promising it’ll help you find true love. Ten years later, here we are,” Ron says.

“Fairy godmothers? True love?” Carwood frowns. “I think you’ve got the wrong fairytale.”

“That’s what I told her,” Ron agrees. “But she insisted.”

“Is it permanent?” Carwood asks.

“It’s looking that way,” Ron says.

Carwood reaches out again, hesitantly pushing his hand into Ron’s fur. “I’m sorry.”

Ron shrugs again, but doesn’t shrug him off this time. “It’s not all bad. Nothing much has changed, really.”

“Huh. Really? You didn’t… get angrier?”

“No.”

“Go out less?”

“Barely.”

“Well, there must be something,” Carwood says.

“Well,” Ron says. “I suppose I don’t get to read as often. Or… or ever, anymore.”

Carwood doesn’t notice he’s absently stroking through Ron’s fur. “Why not?”

“Turns out beasts don’t have great eyesight. And the claws complicate things.” Ron sighs, and it comes out as a rumbling breath.

“And you like to read?” Carwood asks.

“I have a library,” Ron answers, as if that says it all, and really Carwood supposes it does. “Sometimes Nix will read something out loud if he’s in a good mood. Or if it’s my birthday.”

This strikes Carwood as unbearably sad.

“I can read to you,” he offers without thinking.

Ron stares at him. “What?”

“I do know how to read,” Carwood tells him. “I don’t mind reading out loud.”

“That’s…” Ron growls a bit, clearing his throat. “That’s kind.”

“Would you like to now?” Carwood asks,

“Maybe tomorrow,” Ron says. His voice is softer than Carwood has ever heard it. “It’s late.”

Carwood nods. Then he frowns. “Oh. You’re still all bloody. I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“It’s fine,” Ron says. He flicks his tongue out and tastes some of the blood in his fur, making a face. Then he pulls the bowl of water toward him, likely cooling off by now, and dunks his face in it.

It shocks a laugh out of Carwood. “Really, Ron, you don’t—“

“Beast,” Ron says, coming away dripping wet. “Remember?”

“Sure,” Carwood says fondly, dropping a blanket over his head and smiling when Ron shakes off.

“Go to bed,” Ron says gruffly, hidden under the blanket.

And Carwood, exhausted, goes.

As he leaves the room, he thinks he hears one of the teacups start singing, “Sha-la-la-la-la-la my oh my, looks like the boy’s too shy, ain’t gonna kiss the—“

“Wrong Disney movie!”

…

The next day, Ron brings him to the library after lunch.

He looks as close to unsure as Carwood has ever seen him, looking around the shelves instead of at Carwood.

Carwood is a little in awe, both because of the rows and rows of books and because of the wistful way Ron carefully trails his paws across a few of them. It’s endearing. That, more than anything else, drives home the fact that Ron was a real person, once. Still is, underneath the fur and the claws and the growling.

“You can pick whatever you’d like,” Ron tells him.

“Oh, no, I think you ought to,” Carwood says. “I’d like to… I’d like it to be something you’ll enjoy.”

“That’s kind.”

“It’s nothing.”

Carwood takes a seat on one of the couches, waiting for Ron to meander over with a book clasped carefully between the pads of his paws. It’s something small, a storybook, well worn and well loved.

“Was this your favorite?” Carwood asks.

“It was a long time ago,” Ron says. He perches on the couch, shifting a little uncomfortably until Carwood takes pity on him.

“Lean back,” he says, pushing at him until he does just that. “And close your eyes.”

And then he starts to read. It’s a collection of short stories, none of which he’s heard of before. While he’s reading the first one, Ron is leaning against the back of the couch. When he’s working through the second, Ron is curled up on the cushions, head and tail hanging off. As he starts the third, Ron’s head is in his lap, and he’s damn near dozing.

Carwood finds himself petting lazily through Ron’s fur as he finishes the third story. “Are you awake?” he asks.

“Of course,” Ron murmurs, eyes still closed. “If you’d like to stop—“

“No,” Carwood says. “No, I was just making sure.”

Ron makes a noise suspiciously like a purr and nuzzles closer.

Carwood keeps reading.

By the time he closes the book, Ron has drifted off for real, but Carwood’s sure he was awake all the way up to some point during the last story. It’s almost gratifying to think he’ll have a reason to do this again later, if only to finish what they’d started.

For now he sets the book aside, and tips his head back to rest a moment before he has to dislodge the sleeping beast in his lap.

He wakes up an hour later having been using said beast as a blanket, Ron watching him with an unreadable expression in his dark, unreasonably pretty eyes.

…

A week later, Carwood finds himself staring out one of the tower windows at the snow-covered trees.

He’s happy here. It’s not quite perfect, but it’s the closest he’s gotten his entire life. Days are almost peaceful, the castle is warm, the food is hearty and plentiful. The talking objects entertain themselves with singing and squabbling and filling the rooms with liveliness, and Carwood could sit in the corner of any of those room talking to Ron about anything for hours and hours without noticing the time. As long as Dick isn’t nearby, that is.

There are two problems.

The first is that weeks have gone by, and he’s not entirely confident Luz hasn’t managed to off himself by now. Or he’s pissed off the wrong person, or Dike is so offended by Carwood’s sudden disappearance that he takes it out on the boys. The possibilities are numerous, each as likely and disconcerting as the last.

The second problem is one he doesn’t like to think about, because Ron’s answer to _is it permanent_ had been _it’s looking that way_. And the second problem is Carwood really, really doesn’t want it to be permanent.

Ron finds him brooding at the window and lets out a growling sigh.

“You want to leave, don’t you?”

Carwood looks up. “What?”

“Look, I hope you learned your lesson last time,” Ron says, resigned. “If you go running out in the dark without even a map, or a compass, or _something_ , you’re really just asking to get eaten.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Carwood tells him.

Ron nods, eyes on his fidgeting paws. “But you want to leave, right?”

“Yes,” Carwood admits.

“Fine,” Ron says. “Fine, I’ll—we’ll go during daylight, and I’ll walk you as far as I can. Nix might be convinced to take you the rest of the way, but I don’t know, he’s not one for the cold—“

“Wait,” Carwood says. “Wait, no. I’m not leaving.”

Ron cocks his head. “You’re sending some very mixed messages right now.”

“So are you. I’m supposed to be a prisoner.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I was under the impression prisoners don’t usually get to have those sort of opinions.”

“Carwood,” Ron says impatiently. “Prisoners don’t usually get told they’re free to go, either. Read between the lines here.”

“I don’t want to go,” Carwood maintains, stubborn. “I know what I said, but—that’s only because—well, that is to say, in a perfect world—“

“Carwood,” Ron says again.

“I want you to come with me,” Carwood says finally.

“What?”

“I want to go, yes, I want to—I want to leave, and I want to make sure my friends are okay, but I don’t want to leave _you_.”

“Are you serious?” Ron says.

“It wouldn’t be a very funny joke,” Carwood says.

And from the end of the hallway, Nix says, “Well, that’s good enough for me.”

Carwood and Ron both turn to stare at him. He lumbers forward, rubbing at the scruff on his jaw, watching them with a considering look. Ron growls. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Lip,” Nix says, ignoring him. “I know you’re not good with feelings, buddy, but just for the record, this is a True Love type deal, right? You want this furry pain in the ass, forever and ever, till death do you part?”

“Oh,” Carwood says, like he hadn’t thought about it. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

Ron turns to look at him, wide eyed. “It is?”

Nix waves a hand, reclaiming his attention. “There’ll be time for that later. You remember what I said—Christ, ten years ago now, where does the time go? Well, never mind that. Remember what I told you about the curse?”

“You never told me anything about the curse,” Ron says, confused.

“Yes, I did, the first night we met. I said it was going to help you find true love,” Nix reminds him. Ron stares blankly. “For Christ’s sake, I really do have to spell it all out for you, don’t I?”

“The first night we… we met during the day. You showed up looking for someone named Richard, and then you couldn’t leave because of that goddamn blizzard.”

“And then I stayed for ten years, yes, your average accidental house guest.” Nix rolls his eyes. “Thing about fairy godmothers, we can look however we’d like. I prefer this form, of course, but for a first meeting I do find the mystical old lady is more effective.”

It occurs to Carwood that he’d never really wondered why Nix was the only human in the castle. Somehow it makes more sense that he wasn’t, really.

There’s a growl building steadily in Ron’s throat. Carwood sets a hand on his back, but Ron shrugs him off and starts toward Nix, saying, “If this is your idea of a joke—“

“Ah, ah,” Nix says, holding up a hand. “Hold that thought.”

And then he waves his fingers in a circle, and a dark red light shoots from the tips of them to hit Ron square in the chest. He collapses.

“Nix,” Carwood says, stumbling over to drop to his knees by Ron’s side. “Nix, what the hell—“

“You too, Lip, I need to concentrate a moment.” Nix raises both hands, palms up, and they start to glow. The light grows until it shines through the whole hallway, and then seems to envelope the whole castle, getting brighter and brighter until Carwood has to close his eyes.

When he opens them again, everything is different.

There’s a man lying on the floor where the beast was, slim and tall with messy dark hair. The bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw—none of it is anything less than perfect, altogether more beautiful than Carwood would have imagined, had he thought to try.

And then he wakes, and Carwood finds himself meeting a pair of familiar dark eyes.

“Holy shit,” Carwood breathes.

Ron reaches out, concerned, and then he freezes, seemingly arrested by the sight of his own hand. “Holy shit,” he agrees.

Carwood helps him sit up, running his hands over Ron’s shoulders, and bringing one up to curl around his cheek because he just can’t help himself. Ron sets his own hand over Carwood’s, biting his lip. Then he smooths over it with his tongue, clearly cataloguing each new sensation as he experiences it, and Carwood has to kiss him.

Ron kisses back clumsily, and Carwood is reminded all over again that he hasn’t done any of this in ten years. He wonders if he should feel bad that the thought turns him on a little.

“Did you mean it?” Ron asks. His voice is still entirely unique, distinct, still with a bit of that rasp Carwood had wrongfully attributed to beastly vocal cords.

“Obviously he did, or you wouldn’t be human,” Nix interrupts. They both look up at him, having forgotten he was there. He smirks. “I’ll take questions now. Better make it quick, too, before everyone finds us.”

“Why?” Ron asks simply.

“For your own good,” Nix answers. “I know it’s hard to believe, but really, I’m your fairy godmother. Helping is in my job description.”

“And how did this help?”

“Look at you, Ron. Well, you haven’t seen a mirror lately, I suppose, but trust me when I tell you, you’re too goddamn pretty for your own good. If I hadn’t done this, you’d have been married off to some princess for your money and your looks a long time ago,” Nix says.

“So _this_ was your solution?” Ron asks.

Nix shrugs. “There were a lot of different ways I could’ve done it. Cursed spindle, poisoned apple, evil stepsisters—but this seemed fitting. Plus, it had to be something that would affect everyone in the castle. There were a couple different storylines at work here.”

And before he can say anything more, someone else appears at the end of the hallway, this time no one Carwood has ever seen before. A tall lithe redhead who’s near to bursting trying to hold back a smile.

Ron makes an understanding noise. “You were looking for Richard.”

“Didn’t lie about everything,” Nix says.

“Dick,” Ron calls. “Did you know?”

“Yeah,” Dick says. “Yeah, sorry.”

When Carwood hears his voice, he realizes. Everyone is human again, not just Ron. He’d congratulate the reformed clock, but he seems to only have eyes for Nix.

One by one, people start flooding the hall. Real people, stumbling around on real legs and hugging each other with real arms. He recognizes Harry the Candlestick as a short man with curly hair and a beaming gap toothed smile dancing with a pretty blonde. Babe the Wardrobe is another redhead, roughhousing with Bill the Teacup and Joe the Sexy Teapot.

Carwood watches for a moment, and then turns back to Ron.

Ron repeats, almost wonderingly, “You meant it.”

“Must have done,” Carwood says.

Ron kisses him again.

…

Later, as they’re packing Luz up to move him to the castle with them, Carwood finds Dike’s ring among George’s things.

“Did you steal this?” he asks.

Luz sputters. “Excuse you—what makes you think I’d—you’ve got a lot of nerve—“

“George.”

“Ron stole it.”

Carwood sighs, wheeling on Ron, who is wandering around the house touching things with his hands like it’s still a novelty. “Punching him in the mouth wasn’t enough, you had to steal from him too?”

“Shiny,” Ron says. He doesn’t offer any further explanation.

“Might as well be moving us in with a magpie.” Luz huffs. “A very violent magpie.”

“It’s a castle, Luz. Are you really complaining?” Carwood asks.

“Maybe I am! Who says I even want to live in this place, huh?”

“The sexy teapot has become a sexy human again,” Ron informs him.

“Hey,” Carwood says.

“Just trying to appeal to the boy.”

“ _Boy_?”

“Just pack your shit,” Carwood says exasperatedly.

Luz crosses his arms. “Fine. But only if Perco can come too. He’s out of a job thanks to the stunt your beast pulled with Dike.”

On the whole, Ron’s first trip to town in over ten years had gone remarkably well. He’d enjoyed himself, Carwood had liked seeing everyone again, and only one person nearly died.

Okay, so two people nearly died, but only one of those was intentional, and Dike had it coming. What happened to Perconte was unfortunate.

Carwood looks to Ron. It’s the least they can do to make it up to him.

“Fine,” Ron says.

“What are you going to do with the ring?” Carwood asks.

“Toss it somewhere.” Ron slips an arm around Carwood and presses an absentminded kiss to the side of his face, says carelessly, “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a better one.”

Carwood stares at him. “I wasn’t worried.”

Ron preens. “Good.”

Luz makes a face. “All right, enough of that. Shouldn’t you two be locking away some stepsisters and living happily ever after?”

Ron and Carwood share a look.

“Is that—“

“Yeah. Wrong fairytale.”


End file.
